


A Day In The Magical Land Of Skyrim

by FineTevinterWines



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Awkwardness, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack, Gen, Humor, POV Minor Character, Parody, Skyrim References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 16:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FineTevinterWines/pseuds/FineTevinterWines
Summary: Or, a tale of how Gunther the Courier started out fully clothed with a message from the Jarl of Whiterun to the legendary Dragonborn, and ended up... less than that. This humorous piece of fan fiction follows the misadventures of this ambitious but perhaps not too bright young Nord as he wanders through Skyrim with his urgent delivery, and takes a jab at quite a few of the most-known aspects of Skyrim, from titty mods to glitchy physics to the irresistible call of Nirnroot, and then some.





	A Day In The Magical Land Of Skyrim

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a collab contest on DeviantArt, and illustrated by spaceskeleton, a comic artist of great renown in the community, who is sadly no longer active.

Gunther's day began as it always did: with him stretching himself atop an enormous pile of fur pelts (skinned, of course, from the ferocious beasts he had slain on his heroic quests) and then snapping his fingers to let the servants know that their mighty lord had awakened. They did not take too long to appear by his side - half a dozen fair maidens of the Nordic race (plus a couple of elves to make things more interesting), with perfectly chiselled features and slender waists, which you could cup entirely in one hand and which, miraculously, did not bend in the slightest under the weight of their voluptuous bosoms (all but completely exposed, thanks to their improved modifications of heavy armour). Such build was nigh on impossible to find in nature; perhaps the maidens were using Illusion magic to warp their bodies into these delightful hourglasses... but Gunther did not particularly care. As long as they matched the pictures on the covers of his adventure books.  
  
With plenty of hip-swaying and eyelash-batting, the half-clad servants surrounded the bed of the powerful Gunther, vanquisher of monsters. Some of them took to fanning their liege with enormous, iridescent peacock feathers. Not that he really needed to cool off in this harsh climate, but most books seemed to be in agreement that being fanned with 'iridescent peacock feathers' (or maybe it was 'scintillating'?) was an essential part of getting pampered... And who deserved getting pampered than Gunther, the most renowned hero in Skyrim, maybe in all of Tamriel?  
  
Those servants that were not fanning him were spoon-feeding him with his favourite treats - honey nuts and fishy sticks (yes, he knew he was not supposed to mix the main course with the dessert... but he was the mighty Gunther, for the Divines' sake; he did as he willed!). And lastly, one of the elven girls was sorting through Gunther's correspondence: she was supposed to be his personal scribe, as indicated by the fact that, instead of armour like the others, she was wearing mage's robes (also an improved version, with a bared midriff and only a tiny sliver of cloth to cover her torso).  
  
As the scribe informed him, Gunther had, once again, received an enormous stack of letters from his devoted admirers - the most flattering messages being, of course, from the Dragonborn. For this warrior of legend was Gunther's most devoted friend and never hesitated to shower him in lavish reassurances of friendship.  
  
The scribe was just getting ready to read out a passage of the letter where the Dragonborn had composed a poem in Gunther's honour, when he felt a bizarre sort of knock on his forehead, and his vision went blurry for a moment. When, after a few violent blinks, the haze cleared, Gunther discovered that his glorious bed of fur pelts was gone, as were the beautiful servants, and that instead of a spacious longhouse, fit for a jarl, he was lying in a tiny, cramped room, with a sturdy, not in the least bit slender-waisted female figure looming over him.  
  
'You have slept till noon again, you lazy horker!' an angry voice barked into Gunther's ear, making him groan faintly. 'And no, I don't care what sort of "incredible dream" you had this time! You are getting up, helping your old Ma do the chores, and then heading to Whiterun to find a job already!'  
  
Still groaning, Gunther pushed himself up, looking groggily around him. So this was how his day actually began - with a realization that all his fame and glory and the adoration of the Dragonborn was nothing but a dream, and that he was, in fact, just an unremarkable, woefully average peasant, about to get lectured by his mother.  
  
Heaving a huge despondent sigh, Gunther dragged his feet slowly over the edge of the bed - and then froze up, realizing that the formidable matron had a whole enormous halo of wooden plates and clothing irons and other whatnots zooming all around her, whizzing through the air like a swarm of flesh flies in a summer marsh.  
  
'Ma...' he said, his tone cautious and alarmed, 'Do you... Do you see that?'  
  
'Dontcha try to distract me, pup!' she scolded. 'You know how things are these days: you move one of 'em, and then everything else starts flying!'  
  
Ma gestured at the large red apple that had rolled down a fold of blanket sagging between Gunther's knees.  
  
'I tossed this here apple at you, to wake you up - and the apple knocked against a tankard, the tankard knocked against a plate, and up it all went into the air! This ain't the first time it's happened - you'd notice if you didn't go a-traipsing about in the fields playing mighty hero instead of staying at home and helping me! So quit gawking and help me catch 'em all!'  
  
Gunther clambered obediently out of bed, scooping up his crumpled shoes with his feet, and reached upwards tentatively to try and grab a floating plate.  
  
Ma was right: he had not noticed this odd... furniture magic before, having been too busy wandering the fields and gazing at the clouds, wondering if they were hiding any dragons for him to vanquish. But now that he was aware of this, it made him... rather uneasy. It wasn't right, having to jump around your own home catching flying crockery, which struggled to jerk out of your hands and whack you on the nose. Suddenly, as he was in the middle of subduing a particularly spirited hovering kettle, a thought crossed his mind that perhaps it wasn't so bad that he never did come across a winged, fire-breathing beast. If he was so lousy at putting back flying tableware, who was to say how he'd fare against a dragon?..  
  
No, wait! He shouldn't think that! He was a mighty hero - deep, deep down. If just given the opportunity, he'd make the Dragonborn's jaw drop - he was sure of it! Those pesky flying knick-knacks stood no chance against him!  
  
'What do you suppose causes this?' he asked, as nonchalantly as he could, while capturing the last of the flying plates and stuffing it into the cupboard that stood against the farthest wall of their little cottage's single room.  
  
'Dunno,' Ma shrugged. 'Don't really care. There's been uncanny magic in the land ever since folks started spotting them dragons. Some get scared - but not me. I am a Nord, and I ain't budging from my homestead'.  
  
Resting her hands on her hips, she jerked her head commandingly in the direction of Gunther's bed.  
  
'All right, you're done here; now, tidy up, eat that apple, and shuffle off to Whiterun!'  
  
Any triumph that Gunther might have felt after completing his mission to deal with the whizzing crockery was now completely gone, replaced by despondent sulking.  
  
'But Ma!' he whined, trudging across the room and yanking at the crumpled-up blanket with one hand, while clutching at the slippery red fruit with the other. 'What sort of breakfast is an apple?'  
  
Sound question, really, considering how many (well-deserved!) treats he had in his dream.  
  
'You'll get a proper meal when you get back and show me your hard-earned septims!' Gunther's mother snapped categorically. 'I am getting too old to work for two while you're up to Divines know what!'  
  
'Fine,' Gunther grumbled, carelessly patting at his blanket and pillows and taking a big bite out of his apple. 'Fine. You'll have your septims. Maybe someone out there needs a proper hero to clear out a den of giant rats or something'.  
  
'Don't make me laugh! You can't even hold a proper sword!'  
  
Demosntratively disregarding Ma's last remark, Gunther pulled on a pair of baggy pantaloons and a warm vest, sinking his teeth deep into the apple to free up his hands, and then marched out of the door.  
  
Their little shack stood on the very edge of the farmland that surrounded the capital of Whiterun Hold. It was just a short walk uphill towards the city gates; Gunther took that walk sometimes, to gawk at the sights - like the huge Gildergreen tree spreading its branches across the sky, or Dragonsreach Keep peering through the swirling clouds - and to pose dramatically next to the armour and weapon racks outside the smithy, to make the passersby see that he was a warrior at heart. This time, however, there was no posing to be done, as the way to the weapon racks was blocked by two people, apparently in the middle of a heated conversation.  
  
When Gunther arrived on the scene, one of these people, a muscular woman with a soot-smeared face, was speaking in a loud, rather aggravated voice, her arms folded resolutely over her large blacksmith's apron.  
  
'No, Father!' she said. 'You know I always go out of my way to help you, but I just can't leave the smithy for so long! Ask someone else to be your courier!'  
  
Courier, was it? Gunther pricked up his ears. That sounded like a job. Not the most glorious one, sure (and it was probably going to involve running; Gunther hated running) - but maybe if he did it well, the smith would craft him some free armour as a sign of her boundless gratitude. Plus, it would get Ma off his back.  
  
'Heeey,' he drawled, stumbling across the pavement towards the smith and the man she was arguing with (her father, apparently; a wispy sort of fellow, with thinning hair and a tiny moustache).  
  
It had been Gunther's intention to glide up to them smoothly and effortlessly, making an effective appearance befitting a future hero like him - but in reality, he just ended up slipping, and would have surely made quite a painful landing on the hard ground if the smith hadn't instinctively reached out and grabbed him by the forearm.  
  
'Watch where you're going,' she said gruffly.  
  
Gunther grinned and pointed at her with his two forefingers.  
  
'Speaking of going,' he said, 'I would like to go off with that thing you need a courier for! I mean,' he coughed sheepishly, realizing that his phrasing was a bit dubious, 'Not go off as in steal, but go off as in cross the land of Skyrim and... uhh, find whoever is supposed to receive the thing'.  
  
The father and daughter exchanged uncertain glances.  
  
'I happen to be the Jarl's steward,' the wispy man said, looking very stiff. 'I won't entrust an important task like this to some lad from the street!'  
  
'I am not from the street!' Gunther objected. 'I am from the farmlands! My Ma does work for the Battle-Borns; her and me, we live in the smallest house waaay out there... You can drop off my pay there if you don't trust me; it was my Ma who wanted the septims anyway...'  
  
'Oh, so you are already talking about your pay?' the sarcasm in the steward's voice was so intense that it made Gunther's face burn.  
  
The smith, however, appeared to gradually be taking Gunther's side.  
  
'If you think of it, you probably won't find many other volunteers,' she mused.  
  
'Not to mention that the Jarl will continue to sign documents with rude drawings out of spite until I get the job done,' the steward muttered to himself.  
  
'Fine,' he added, after a pause, now speaking a little louder. 'I will send your pay to your home, just like you asked. Your assignment will be to take this,' he rummaged in his long, padded bluish coat and pulled out a small but visibly heavy coinpurse, with a sealed scroll attached to it, 'And deliver it to the Dragonborn'.  
  
'Oh gods!' Gunther gasped. 'The real Dragonborn?!'  
  
'There have been no fake ones so far,' the steward said dryly. 'Except that off-duty guard in... Haafingar I think. But, from what I've heard, he was on Skooma'.  
  
'The Dragonborn...' Gunther repeated breathlessly.  
  
He had been so right to jump on that job - and not because of the money! Forget the money; let Ma have the money, flying round her head like those clothing irons! If he pulled this off, he would impress the Dragonborn... Maybe the Dragonborn would even make him into an apprentice, and uncover his incredible skills!  
  
Yes, but if he hoped to succeed, he had to act professional. Probably cut down on the heavy breathing and excited gaping.  
  
'Right then, a delivery for the Dragonborn,' he concluded, accepting the purse from the steward and carefully hiding it in a pouch sewn onto his pantaloons.  
  
'Inheritance from a recently deseased friend,' the wispy man commented.  
  
Gunther scratched the back of his head, mentally going through the recent deaths in the part of the hold where he lived. There had been all but none, actually, even what with the frequent dragon scares... Save for that Imperial fella, owner of a neighbouring farm. Oh, that had been one weird way to die, if you believed the rumours: some folks said that a wandering conjurer had knocked on the farmer's door one night, asking to give her some food; the farmer had refused, saying that the nippy air had not been good to his crops... So the conjurer had turned him into a sweetroll, and eaten him! If Gunther had been there, he would have doubtlessly defeated her in an epic battle - but without his help, the guards had long since lost all hope of tracking her down, as all the clues she had left behind were a handful of crumbs and a warning message scribbled on a greasy napkin.  
  
'Umm... You don't mean Severio Pelagia, do you?' Gunther asked, after his reminiscences. 'The sweetroll man? I didn't know he was friends with the Dragonborn!'  
  
Really - poor old Severio's death had been the most exciting thing about him. Why make friends with that boring sop if you had his own amazing self living just a few fields away?  
  
'They weren't too close,' the steward replied. 'Once, for whatever reason, the Dragonborn decided to help the late Severio collect his cabbage harvest; the man was so moved that he immediately included the Dragonborn in his will. So...' he raised his finger warningly. 'If you lose any of that gold, you will likely get Shouted off some particularly elevated landmark'.  
  
'I won't lose it, no sir!' Gunther reassured him, twirling around on his heels and taking a broad step in the direction of the city gates. A moment later, however, he froze in mid-stride and asked, blinking in confusion,  
  
'Uh... Wait a minute! Where do I look for the Dragonborn exactly? I mean, I said I'd cross the land of Skyrim, but a place to start would be nice...'  
  
The steward shrugged.  
  
'The Dragonborn is notoriously elusive. You could try asking the guards - they always know the latest rumours'.  
  
'Got it!' Gunther grinned as broadly as he could, to show what a skilled and confident courier he was. 'Consider the gold delivered!'  
  
With a farewell wave to the steward and his daughter, Gunther trotted up to a couple of town guardsmen, who were just starting their shift, stretching and scratching themselves on either side of the gateway. As luck would have it, Gunther didn't even have to ask them anything: all he had to do was listen in on them talking to each other.  
  
'It was a bad idea, I tell you,' the shorter guard groused, rubbing the small of his back. 'Writing down all them rumours and pulling them out of the helmet so that each of us got to say one line all day'.  
  
'Why d'you say that?' the taller guard asked curiously. 'It saves space up here!' With these words, he hammered his fist against his bucket-like helmet, with a loud, echoing bang. 'Besides, you got a really decent line! Not about knees or sweetrolls or...'  
  
'Yeah, yeah, I know,' the shorter guard cut in, sounding quite exasperated. "Heard they are reforming the Dawnguard, in an old fort near Riften". I said that one to the Dragonborn - several times. And got Shouted all the way down the Dragonsreach stairs! I am still hurting in some places!'.  
  
'But the Dragonborn did mark the fort on the map, right?' the taller guard pointed out, as he gave his fellow a comforting pat on the shoulder. 'So you did good, in the end'.  
  
Gunther felt his facial muscles creak under the strain of an enormous grin. Now he knew where to start looking for the Dragonborn - near Riften! Hah - this was turning out to be easier than he had thought! He would just catch a carriage, and enjoy a nice long ride (maybe looking for dragons in the clouds along the way), and then... Oh wait - he had no money, except for the Dragonborn's inheritance, and that, of course, was untouchable; and running back to the steward and asking him to hand over the pay right now would have ruined the impression he'd made. He could not even pay the coachman with his apple - because he had long since eaten it.  
  
He might have had a go at a cunning game of persuasion, convincing the coachman that he was on a quest of dire importance - except he had already tried it, back when he was planning to run away from home to Winterhold and see for himself if the College mages could walk on air. Nothing good had come out of it: the coachman had given Gunther an utterly unfazed, half-lidded look, while the horse had chewed up the sleeve of his shirt. So he'd have to make the journey on foot - unless, of course, he caught a fell beast of the wilds along the way, tamed it, and turned it into a mount. Time would tell.  
  
With his hands deep in his vest's pockets, Gunther sauntered past the guards and followed the paved road back to the farmlands until he reached the wooden sign with 'Riften' written on it. It seemed like he was in for a pleasant walk along the river bank, with the midday sun shining overhead (quite a rare sight in Skyrim, which Gunther took for a good omen), and with the tall, brownish-gold grass rippling in the breeze, and with... Hold up, what was that noise?  
  
Gunther had not walked too far when he became distracted by a faint, pulsing sort of tingle, which came somewhere from the direction of the river, seeming to seep deeper and deeper into his head the longer he listened to it. Soon, all the world around him stopped mattering - even befriending the Dragonborn did not appear as important any more. Nothing was important, really - except for that rhythmic tingle, which enchanted and beckoned him, till his rounded eyes glazed over and, stumbling and groggy like a sleepwalker, he veered off the road and trudged down the bank, ignoring the roots and rocks underfoot - whenever they tripped him up and he fell down, he would just get back to his feet and keep moving towards the mystical tingle.  
  
He came to his senses only when the noise was suddenly silenced - and the awakening was even more abrupt than when Ma threw that apple at him to make him stop dreaming of girls and glory. It turned out that he had almost wandered into the water, his feet sinking deep into the slurping black mud - and in his hand, he was holding a soggy, greyish plant with sharp-edged leaves.  
  
'Ugh!' Gunther spat in disgust, tossing the plant as far away from himself as he could. 'Why did I pick up this sorry thing?'  
  
The plant landed in the water with a small 'plop', and, his face still squished into a revolted grimace, Gunther followed it with his gaze for a while, as it floated downstream. And then - then he saw another one. Another little clump of carved greyish leaves, leaning towards the water - and this time, it was glowing. Yes, by Shor, there was a whole shiny cloud swirling round it, with magical sparkles floating in the air; and there came that tingle again.  
  
Losing his grip on reality, Gunther once more grew completely absorbed by the plant's call. As he staggered along the water's edge to pick it, his shoes remained behind, submerging deep into the muddy goop. But he did not care - the only thought that rang through his head, egging him on like a war drum, was 'Follow the tingle! Follow the tingle!'.  
  
And again, the overpowering spell of the glowing plant was lifted the moment Gunther's fingers closed round its stalk and he pulled it out of the wet ground. But this time, he was tossed back into the waking world not just because the plant stopped tingling. As he tugged at the slippery stalk, something small but very vicious nibbled at his fingers. Yelping in pain and dropping the plant, Gunther lifted his hand to his bleary eyes - and discovered that there was a small fish latched on to it, drawing blood with its tiny teeth, a ferocious green flame burning in its eyes.  
  
'Gaah! Slaughterfish!' Gunther screamed, waggling his fingers madly till the toothy creature tore itself off and landed back in the river.  
  
With the threat gone, Gunther drew a calming breath, and declared,  
  
'Hah! I slaughtered a slaughterfish!'  
  
This brave feat definitely had to go down into his account of this journey! Frankly, the darn little biter did not look much like a slaughterfish - more like a river betty or something; but it wouldn't hurt anyone if he rounded up its size, say, to half an arm's length? Or maybe a whole arm's length?  
  
Before Gunther could decide to himself which was better, the fish returned - and this time, with company. Eerily, inexplicably, just like the tableware in Ma's home, they rose above the water's surface - dozens and dozens of little fish, each with its eyes glowing green and its jaws snapping hungrily.  
  
Seeing this school - or flock, or whatever - floating towards him, unstoppable and ravenous, Gunther let out a shriek that set terrified birds flying off the nearby treetops, and, all his would-be heroics forgotten, raced up the bank, panting loudly and sometimes dropping on all fours when he bumped against one of those bothersome roots and boulders. When, sweating and huffing, his pantaloons splattered with mud and his bare soles and palms black with grime, he finally made it to the firm ground of the road, he found his way barred by a towering creature that, at first glance, might have appeared to be a completely non-threatening wooden carving - a figure of a woman that someone had shaped out of a tree stump, topped with a bundle of twigs, and placed on the roadside for some reason. Except that the creature had eyes, and they burned the same venomous shade of green as those of the fish.  
  
When its gaze met Gunther's, the carving came alive: it leaned forward with an ear-grinding creak, and swatted at the air in front of his face, with long, gnarled fingers, each of which had a small leaf or two sprouting out of the knuckles. The fish must have regarded the gesture as a command to attack - for they seemed to speed up their floating, and swooped upon Gunther, nipping at the skin of his hands and nose and slapping him with their wet little tails; while the creature that controlled them clawed at him again, this time ripping his vest just below the shoulder.  
  
Battles with wildlife were well and good, Gunther decided, cowering and shielding his eyes from the angry fish and their wooden ringleader - but this situation called for an expeditious retreat. And retreat he did - very expeditiously. By diving under the green-eyed creature's extended arm (or branch or whatever) and then running down the road as fast as his legs could carry him, relentlessly pursued by flying fish.  
  
Luckily for his poor chest, which was beginning to feel painfully tight, Gunther did not have to run too far when he saw a human figure standing on the top of a hillock, a little way off the road, with its face turned towards a tall standing stone, which had some sort of symbol carved into it.  
  
'Hey there!' Gunther yelled hoarsely, raising his arms to draw the figure's attention. 'A little help!'  
  
The stranger, however, seemed to be too caught up in studying that carved stone: Gunther had to crawl all the way uphill, with the wooden creature trying to grab at his bare ankles and with the fish cloud never ceasing to bite at him, before she finally deigned to turn around. Yes, it was a she - a pale, pouty woman in a black robe, who looked very annoyed for some reason. Gunther moved awkwardly towards her, preparing to explain that he was in a spot of trouble and that, instead of being annoyed, she could try getting rid of all that fish - but just as he opened his mouth, he stubbed his bare toe against something hard and sharp. This was the first time that he really registered his lack of shoes - or the fact that the broad, cracked platform at the foot of the standing stone was littered with... bones. Most of them were too small to be human, covering the ground in a sort of sickly, crackling yellowish-white carpet - but others were unmistakably, sickeningly recognizable: skeletal arms, and arching rib cages, and even a skull or two... or maybe several dozen?  
  
Gunther had often envisioned himself delving into some sinister haunted crypt, or standing in the middle of a bloody battlefield - but he could never have predicted that the actual sight of something like this would make him feel so nauseous. Swaying and gagging, he sidestepped away from both the robed woman and the wooden creature. With him out of the picture, the two of them got a clear view of each other... And apparently, it was hate at first sight, as they both waved their upper limbs aggressively: in the case of the walking tree, this was a way of shooing her fish away from Gunther (finally) and siccing them on a new target; and for the pouty stranger, the arm-flapping served as the start of some kind of wicked summoning spell, which soon made beams of purple light shoot out of her palms, forming a shimmering link between her and the bones underfoot.  
  
With a faint rumble, the scattered skeleton parts rose up, forming three gruesome constructs, one with an extra arm sticking out of an incomplete ribcage, one with two leering skulls attached to its neck, and one with a huge bunch of wriggling bony fingers hanging down from each of its elbows like monstrous jazbay grapes. Petrified by dread, Gunther watched the three deformed skeletons fall upon the wooden monster, each pulling its roots and branches in different directions till they broke away, making the creature let out a long, piercing, almost human screech of pain that brought unexpected tears to Gunther's eyes.  
  
He should have probably felt ashamed: surely, true heroes were not supposed to cry. But he did not really have time to chide himself, since the fight kept raging on. Even though the skeletons had worked long and hard to tear apart the wooden creature, reducing it to a pile of lifeless twigs and causing the green light in its eyes to fade to darkness, the savage fish were unaffected. Time and again, they lunged at the robed woman, chewing at her fingers or giving her painful tail slaps in the face, just like they did when chasing Gunther. Only unlike the underappreciated hero, the robed stranger had more magical tricks in store: cupping her hand as if she was holding something round (like an invisible apple... Mmm, apple), she conjured up a little flame tongue, which, moments later, erupted into a thundering explosion that almost singed Gunther's eyebrows. But at least the sudden fire blast freed him from his terrified stupor, and he managed to back off a little further before the raging blaze could reach him.  
  
Thankfully, it died down really fast, leaving the stone slab strewn with countless little fried fishes. But the robed woman never got a chance to rejoice at her victory (or her magical cooking skills): the recoil from the fire bolt had made her lose her footing, and down she plummeted into the river, just as her flame spell wore off. Letting out an alarmed gurgle, the three skeletons threw up their misshapen arms and scurried downhill in single file to rescue their summoner. But hardly had they reached the river bank when they stopped in their tracks and folded up limply, turning back into separate bones, which, of course, had to bounce off in all directions the moment they touched the ground. Gunther had no idea why this happened: maybe this dark magic, like the fire, lasted only for a short period of time - or maybe the skeletons fell apart because there was no-one there to control them any more... At least, he never saw the robed woman resurface.  
  
Gods... This was much too much to take in. With a prolonged shiver, Gunther crossed the platform and leaned against the standing stone for support - he sorely needed it, his legs having grown all weak and wobbly. Oddly enough, the stone seemed to shiver as well - but Gunther figured he had to be imagining things, because he was still pretty rattled after all these chases and fish magic and explosions... And hungry, too. Shore's bones - no, bad choice of words; he did not think he'd ever be able to hear the word 'bones' without his heart jolting. Shor's... apples! He was so hungry!  
  
The sun - now a pale white blur behind a thin grey cloud - had shifted past its zenith, and he had not had a single bite to eat since Ma hit him with that apple. The silly old crone should have packed him lunch or something - he needed his strength to cross these wild lands, where even the tiniest fish wanted him dead. Speaking of which - these critters that the poor robed wretch had fried with her fire bolt... They were almost like his beloved fishy sticks! With his mouth watering almost in literal streams, Gunther began to wonder if the little fish were crunchy... And immediately set all his spit flying in a showering jet, as he reminded himself that the 'fishy sticks' were lying on dirty ground, among creepy old bones and the remains of that... wooden thing.  
  
But in the end, a demandingly gurgling stomach outweighed any feeling of disgust that Gunther might have had. Squatting down among the bones, he scooped the fried fish into his hands and took to peeling their flesh off their soft, bendy spines and stuffing it inside his mouth. Good thing there was nobody left to watch him: he probably looked more like some sort of slimy cave dweller rather than a brave adventurer. But at least the hungry gurgling had stopped.  
  
With his stomach full, Gunther got up and, taking great care not to look back at the scattered bones and tree limbs, returned to the road. The makeshift fishy sticks cheered him up somewhat, but not for long: with the sky steadily growing more and more overcast, a sharp sensation of cold was beginning to creep up Gunther's body, starting with his bare feet. And it didn't really help that his vest now sported a long, fraying gash. Or that his pantaloon legs were still slightly wet at the bottom, from all the chasing after glowing roots through mud and water. He could really do with a nice, warm, crackling fire - of the normal, not magical kind.  
  
After Gunther spent a while (a few minutes? or many, many endless hours?) shuffling down the road, with the pavement feeling slippery and icy-cold under his shoeless soles, the gods seemed to have answered his prayers. Slowing to a halt and shielding his squinting eyes with his hand, Gunther broke into a grin: there definitely was a campfire up ahead - a welcoming spark of gold among the gathering grey fog. Oh, it would sure be nice to settle cozily in front of it - and to entertain whoever had lit the fire with stories of how he, the mighty Gunther, had single-handedly defeated a horde of many-headed skeletons!  
  
Already honing the finer details of these stories in his mind, Gunther sped up as much as he could; the campfire steadily loomed closer and closer, and soon, he was able to see just how huge it was. The stack of crackling logs rose higher than Gunther's head, and the heat that spread from them was enough to warm up a traditional Nordic steam house. It was utter bliss, basking in the golden waves of that heat - for a minute or two, until the ones who had built this enormous campfire emerged from the mist; not quite in the mood for heroic tales, by the looks of them.  
  
They somewhat resembled humans - gruff, bearded Nords, with matted fur pelts wrapped around their hips and shoulders. But their size matched that of their campfire: they were so tall that Gunther's heart contracted from the sheer fear of heights as he looked them over from head to toe; and in their hands, they carried thick clubs, each as big as a young tree. One of these clubs got raised by its owner high into the air the moment Gunther made his presence known (by letting out a terrified, shuddering breath) - and then, cutting through the air with a loud swoosh, it came crushing down, and landed a tremendous blow at the ground at Gunther's feet.  
  
And again, he found himself flying from danger - this time, literally, as the force of the impact had lifted him off the ground. His eyes stinging, his ears ringing so loudly that he could not hear his own scream, Gunther soared to the sky, and whooshed off somewhere far away from the giants, who, together with their campfire and everything else that remained on the ground, soon blended into a single grey blob, which rapidly shrank in size.  
  
He had had most wonderful dreams about flying - more often than not, on the back of a dragon he had tamed... But this was nothing like those dreams. This was immensely frightening - and made him sick.  
  
Although... This flight and Gunther's dreams did have one thing in common: they had to end. Eventually, the hazy blob far below began to grow closer, allowing Gunther to make out separate details - like a tall pine tree that suddenly popped up in his path, sticking out a bare branch near the bottom of its trunk like a lance.  
  
The branch caught at the fabric of Gunther's vest, leaving him hanging with his toes scraping the ground - while the tear made by the wooden monster grew broader and broader. Before long, it turned into a gaping gash, and Gunther slid out of his vest, thumping heavily right at the feet of a blonde Nord lad in a battered, rusty iron cuirass.  
  
'By Kyne! Who... Who are you?!' the lad demanded shrilly, pointing a very shaky axe down at Gunther. 'One of Vals' minions? Did he send you?'.  
  
'I am no minion! I'm wandering hero who just had a very... magical adventure,' Gunther explained while getting up - and spitting out dry pine needles. 'And I don't know any Vals!'  
  
'Hero, huh?' the lad repeated slowly, the look in his blue eyes changing from suspicious to hopeful. 'Do you suppose you could... go in there with me?'  
  
He gestured at a mossy stone dome that rose above the undergrowth a few paces behind him: an ancient barrow, just like the books described, with a wrought metal door marking the entrance.  
  
'It's my family tomb; and that vile necromancer, Vals Veran, is inside, doing Gods know what with my dead relatives! My Aunt Agna went in after him, but she has not come out for so long... I am getting worried, and I wanna help her, but... But I am too scared to go in by myself'.  
  
To tell the truth, Gunther got quite scared as well. If there was a real, honest-to-goodness (or badness) necromancer holed up in there, that meant more many-handed skeletons and blazing spells... and maybe losing more clothes. Not to mention this barrow was probably way off the road to Riften.  
  
But - but he had already introduced himself as a hero! That lad seemed much friendlier than anyone (or anything) he had met so far - he deserved being shown how professional Gunther could be!  
  
'All right,' he said, forcing a small laugh and rubbing his bare feet together. 'Let's go save your aunt!'.  
  
The bright, trusting glimmer in the young Nord's eyes almost made him tear up again - so he hurried to distract himself by leading the charge. Only it wasn't really much of a charge: the moment the metal door swung open and the two heroes found themselves in a long, murky corridor, with deep niches on either side, Gunther stood still, with his limbs and body growing very tense and his eyes darting nervously to and fro. There were coffins inside the niches - and after all he'd been though, Gunther had no intention of disturbing whoever was inside.  
  
'Hey...' he said in a hissing whisper. 'What's your name?'  
  
'Golldir,' the lad replied, lowering his voice to mimic him.  
  
'Golldir - I think we oughta be very quiet... You know, to let your relatives rest'.  
  
Golldir met Gunther's suggestion with a silent but vigorous nod (Bless him! His very first adoring fan!) - and off they went, balancing precariously on tiptoe and pausing after every step. This had to be the slowest (and the most boring) dungeon delve in history, but at least there were no more skeleton attacks.  
  
  
When, at long last, they reached the corridor's end, it opened into a small chamber, with the way further in barred by a wooden door. There was muffled chanting coming from the door's other side; the voice was low and husky and altogether unsettling. But that was not the grizzliest thing about this chamber: there were dark-red, sticky splashes smeared all across its floor, and in the middle of the biggest one, lay a stocky, middle-aged woman (kind of like Gunther's Ma, only with more muscles). With her eyes half-closed and her mouth open, she appeared to be asleep... Except she wasn't.  
  
'Aunt Agna!' Golldir wailed, forgetting all about not disturbing the ancestors. 'He killed her! That damn grey-skin killed her!'  
  
'Whoa, I did not expect that,' Gunther mumbled, looking away from the hapless woman, with a sickly lump clogging his throat. 'I sure wish she wasn't dead: then I could've saved her'.  
  
The moment he spoke those words, Gunther almost plopped down on his backside, an already familiar rumble shaking the floor beneath his shoeless feet. It was followed by a burst of dazzling purple light from under each of his fingernails. Sizzling and spitting sparks, the light travelled down to Aunt Agna's body and, twisting around her like ghostly threads, pulled her limp form to her feet. She shuddered all over, threw her eyes wide open, revealing that they had rolled up in their sockets, looking like boiled eggs - and let out a throaty gargle.  
  
'You!' Golldir shrieked, his open, trusting face twisting into a livid grimace. 'You lied about being a hero! You're just like Vals! A nec... Necromancer!'  
  
His outraged scream ended in a slurping sob, which somehow terrified Gunther even more than the sight of the dead woman lumbering about, trying to pick up the battle axe that she must have dropped on the floor.  
  
'Wait!' he cried out desperately, reaching out to Golldir, who had turned his back on him. 'You got it all wrong! I am not... It had to be that standing stone! I touched it before I had my fishy snack!'  
  
But Golldir did not care: with one last sniff, he clenched his fists and ran off, ignoring the confused ancestors that peeked out of their coffins and gaped at him, apparently wondering why he was crying. In a few moments, he vanished from view. Gunther's first and only adoring fan - gone.  
  
In the meanwhile, Aunt Agna, having finally gotten a grip of her axe, took a huge swing at the wooden door, smashing it into splinters. The gaping hole left in the door's place revealed another robed figure (Gunther knew by now not to trust those). This time, it was a Dark Elf: Gunther had seen those a couple of times, in the Whiterun market district. With his ashen skin and sunken cheeks, he looked quite a bit like the husks of the dead that surrounded him, laid out on stone tables, most likely for some foul ritual. And his eyes, as Gunther had already come to expect, were glowing - a vivid, fierce red.  
  
'Must! Kill! Vals! Veran!' Aunt Agna snarled, as she raced forward, her face blank and her mouth drooling slightly.  
  
The elf proved faster than her: before the swooshing axe could hit him, he disappeared in a blinding flash - and then reappeared, weaving himself out of thin air right behind Gunther. The hapless hero could feel the necromancer's strained breath on the back of his neck, and it made his hair stand on end, his heart clenching at the thought that he might get stabbed with something any moment now.  
  
After her first swing missed, Aunt Agna turned around on her heels and raced back through the hole in the door, her face still just as blank. Again, the elf cast a spell to evade her - and his second magic charge was much more powerful. The piercing light now flooded the whole chamber, and both Gunther and Aunt Agna got caught up in it, disappearing together with the necromancer. For a moment or so, everything went completely black - and then, the bizarre trio materialized itself somewhere in the woods outside, with the barrow nowhere to be seen. This magical stunt must have taken quite a toll on the elf: he leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, apparently intending to catch his breath - but instead, ended up exposing his neck to yet another strike of Aunt Agna's axe. A strike that did not miss.  
  
With a ripe squelch, as if the elf was some sort of sickly-grey pumpkin, the blade cut into his flesh, spraying both Aunt Agna (who did not care) and Gunther (who did care, to the point of almost wetting himself) with hot, fresh blood. Like so many things in Skyrim these days, the severed head was sent flying - and landed right into Gunther's hands like a morbid ball. For a moment, the elf stared at him with his burning eyes (his... necromanciness must have been keeping him alive). Then, he cried out hoarsely, 'Azura curse you!', and, belching out more dark, bubbling blood, froze into a cold, lifeless mask, while his body dropped to its knees and then rolled to the side.  
  
Hurtling the dead head somewhere into the thicket, Gunther took to running around erratically and screaming at the top of his lungs, while also tugging at his blood-soaked shirt in a frantic attempt to pull it off. When he finally managed to do that, he tossed the shirt aside; it fell like a pall over Aunt Agna's head, making her stagger and then crumble away, with a faint hiss and a burst of purple sparkles, so that the bloodied cloth pooled up on the ground, raising a cloud of dust. His eyes bulging, Gunther stared at the place where Aunt Agna had stood - and resumed his running; only this time, in a very specific direction: away from all of this.  
  
His blind race through the forest made him hot and sweaty, and he forgot for a while that he had no shirt on. It was only when he left the woods behind, having trampled his way through some prickly bushes, that he felt a sudden chilling wave wash over him. The day was already reaching its dusk, and the air kept steadily getting colder; besides, Gunther had somehow managed to find the river again (if it was the same river, which he had no way of knowing), and it sent a shiver up his spine with its icy breath.  
  
Sighing heavily, Gunther cast a disheartened gaze at the dark waves; but just as he was about to weep over what a wretched business it was, being an adventurer, his reddened, slightly frostbitten ears detected a mechanical churning sound, mixing in with the lapping of the river. Lifting his head, he peered ahead - and soon enough, discerned a water mill, with a cozy-looking cottage nestling right next to it. Maybe the miller could give him shelter for the night - and hopefully something to keep his stomach from gurgling again. Then, in the morning, things might work out for the better, and the Dragonborn might still take a liking to him - though Gunther was not so sure he wanted to become an apprentice hero any more.  
  
With each step he took on his way to the cottage, Gunther felt more and more cold - so by the time he knocked on its door, and someone opened it cautiously, peering at him through a narrow crack, he could barely contain the chattering of his teeth,  
  
'L-lost... H-hungry... P-please let me stay...'  
  
'Your poor soul!' a soft female voice exclaimed, while the crack in the doorway grew slightly wider. 'Of course you can stay! In fact, I insist - it is almost my dinnertime, but I shall not have a bite to eat until you are taken care of!'  
  
Spluttering something vaguely grateful, Gunther squeezed inside the cottage. It was not much bigger than his and Ma's place, but neatly swept and filled with warm candlelight - which allowed Gunther to take a better look at the woman who had let him in.  
  
Ye gods - she looked so much like the maidens from his dream that Gunther felt his jaw drop. Her built was not an exact copy of those ideal hourglasses - but the dress she was wearing was of the 'improved' variety, with just enough cloth to cover the naughtiest bits. And just as those shapely maids, she seemed very eager to see to Gunther's needs: in a flash, she ushered him towards a small wooden table, seated him down, and laid out a simple but delicious meal before him: a large bread loaf, a bowl of butter, and a jar of berry preserves that she unsealed with a single casual twist of her hand (that must have required a lot of strength; Gunther himself, despite his hidden warrior talents, always struggled when it came to opening jars).  
  
'That's all I have stocked up,' the woman sighed, watching Gunther lump half a jar of preserves over a thick slice of bread-and-butter. 'We do not get many visitors out here. Such a pity: we love entertaining guests'.  
  
'We?' Gunther asked thickly, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's.  
  
'My husband and I,' the woman smiled. 'You will meet him soon: he should wake up any minute now. Working at the mill is so hard, you see; sometimes he has to take little naps to restore his strength'.  
  
Gunther swallowed and stiffened in his seat, feeling a little uneasy. The miller would probably be... miffed if he found his pretty wife chatting with a shirtless stranger. And Gunther had no wish to see any more axes pointed at him.  
  
'Do not worry: I won't be miffed,' a deep voice said from the less lit corner of the room, making Gunther start.  
  
With a slow, dramatic step out of the shadows, the miller walked towards them; he was a tall, stately man, with a bushy beard - and just as lightly clothed as his wife. Looking at him, Gunther suddenly thought that he wouldn't have minded if, in addition to the maidens, his dream had had impeccably muscular youths in improved armour, too.  
  
'You are our dinner guest,' the miller said graciously as he wrapped his arm round his wife's waist, their half-bared chests pressing together. 'And if you wish for... dessert, we shall both be happy to oblige'.  
  
At this point, Gunther's jaw dropped some more: the two spouses took to kissing right in front of him, with their mouths wide open and their greedy, glistening tongues very visible. And the longer he gaped at them, unable to as much as blink, the more overwhelmed he got by a feeling that had already clouded his mind once, when he was hunting for glowing roots near the river. Soon, the whole world slipped away, except for a demanding drum beat,  
  
'Join them. Join them. Join them'.  
  
With his eyes round and vacant, Gunther rose from his seat and allowed the miller and his wife to take him by the hands and pull him towards their bed, into the darker half of the cottage. Before he knew it, he found himself reclining on the pillows, with the miller tickling his neck with nibble-like kisses, and his wife teasingly stroking his bare thigh...  
  
Wait! Bare thigh?! Dear gods - his pantaloons were gone! His precious pantaloons, with the Dragonborn's inheritance tucked away in the pocket! He had to get them back!  
  
As this horrifying realization woke Gunther up, he was able to see his overly hospitable hosts in a whole new light - and not a very flattering one at that. Sitting up in bed and gaping around, he discovered that the miller and his wife had... changed. Their faces now looked uncannily pale, taking on almost the same ashen shade as Vals Veran's; their eyes, too, burned in their bruised sockets like hot coals - and their bared teeth had turned long and sharp, the sight of them making Gunther whimper and nervously grope around his neck. So that's what the miller's kisses had really been: a preparation for a vampire's bite.  
  
Oh yes - Gunther had read more than enough books about these vile creatures; and he wasn't going to wait around till they turned him into one too!  
  
All concern for his pantaloons completely forgotten, Gunther rolled off the bed and made a beeline for the cottage door. While wriggling out of the pillow heap, he had knocked the two vampires back, giving himself a bit of a head start; but as he was struggling to open the door with his shaking hands, the creatures caught up with him, crossing the room in a single unnaturally powerful leap. As a cold, clammy hand (the wife's, it seemed; with the neatly trimmed nails having turned into sharp claws) closed round his throat, Gunther braced for an untimely end of his heroics - but before the vampires could take a single bite out of him, he finally flung the door open, just at that precise moment when the clouds in the sky drew apart, letting through... No, not a dragon - a single beam of red-tinted evening sunlight.  
  
As this broad ray poured through the door and slid across the vampires' exposed bodies, their pallid skin disappeared underneath a layer of oily red blisters. Spitting out hoarse curses, the creatures fell to their knees, the miller grabbing Gunther desperately by the ankle.  
  
'Minions!' he screeched, mustering his last shreds of strength. 'Minions!'  
  
Unable to shake the miller off, Gunther swivelled his head anxiously. He was not ready to face even more skeletons, not with that creature weighing him down like a bloody anchor!  
  
But, ridiculous as it sounded, the mysterious 'minions' that the vampire miller had summoned turned out to be... chickens. Not cowards - literal chubby little fowl, which came scurrying from every corner of the cottage's back yard, with the pinpoint pupils of their glassy eyes burning as brightly as their masters' vampiric gaze. After their flock gathered in front of the cottage, the chickens gave Gunther an intent glare; then, turned around and marched off, across the bristling dewy grass and up the road. With the writhing, burnt-up vampire still holding him back, Gunther could not do anything but watch the chickens' silhouettes, inky black against the setting sun, as they surrounded a solitary human figure (a guard on patrol, judging by the slightly egg-shaped helmet) and ushered him or her towards the cottage, by means of lots and lots of angry shin-pecking.  
  
In the meanwhile, the evening rays kept scorching the vampires' flesh; by the time the guard (who turned out to be a woman, armed with an axe to rival Aunt Agna's) reached their doorstep, the two creatures had sizzled away completely, turning into a dark mass of charred flakes - with Gunther standing ankle-deep in it, naked save for a lopsided loincloth.  
  
'All right, hold right there, you…' the guard began threateningly, flexing her shoulders to better lift her axe. 'How does it go? Right: criminal scum!'  
  
Gunther opened his mouth to object, but the only sound that followed was a long, feral howl - which did not come from him. Seconds later, a giant black blur, shaped like a bizarre cross between a large dog and a very muscular man, came rushing towards the cottage, whipping a cloud of dust out of the ground. Following the blur, was yet another human figure, also in a helmet, which had the instantly recognizable horns attached to it.  
  
The Dragonborn! The Dragonborn was here (wherever 'here' was; but certainly nowhere near Riften)! The Dragonborn was coming, moving closer and closer and closer! There was that fateful meeting at long last... And Gunther was almost completely naked, had misplaced the gold he was to deliver, and frankly just wanted to go home.  
  
'It's Sinding!' the Dragonborn bellowed, gesturing frantically first at the dog-like blur and then at the guard. 'Don't let him get away!'.  
  
'Sinding?!' the guard echoed. 'That beast belongs in jail!'.  
  
With that, she jumped into front of the speeding dog... dogman, attempting to block his path. But he only struck at her with his thick, black-furred arm, making her lose balance. But even as she fell, the guard gripped tightly at the strands of fur on Sinding's back, digging her heels deep into the ground. The beast dragged her behind for a short while and eventually jerked free, knocking her back into the grass, where she remained lying, grumbling something to herself, while her quarry disappeared in the woods.  
  
'Damn that werewolf!' the Dragonborn spat in frustration, racing up to the cottage. 'But no matter: I'll find him and... Ooh, loot!'  
  
Paying no heed to the dumbfounded Gunther or the prostrate guard, the hero in the horned helmet suddenly crouched down next to the pile of vampire dust and scooped up carefully into a leather pouch, which then went inside a seemingly bottomless backpack. After that, the Dragonborn got up and strode inside the abandoned dwelling, grabbing and packing away everything within reach, from spare clothing to pillows to a broomstick or two. In the end, every shelf and cupboard and table in sight was left completely barren, as if the cottage had been ravaged by a merciless whirlwind. And amid all this desolation, the Dragonborn kept groping and rummaging, lifting the bed covers and sniffing around empty pots, tossing any remaining knickknacks into that (most likely enchanted) backpack, which had only developed a slight bulge after all the stuffing.  
  
Of course, Gunther's pantaloons inevitably suffered the same fate as everything else in the cottage. The Dragonborn picked them up, patted their pockets and, pulling out the oh-so-important purse, exclaimed in pleasant surprise,  
  
'Look at that! Gold! And it even has my name on it!'  
  
'That was something I was supposed to deliver,' Gunther responded dully, not caring at all about being heard. 'Your hands only...'  
  
And to think that just a few hours before, he had been so eager to meet this supposed hero, and boast what a great courier he was! Now, however, all the enticing glamour of a living legend was dispelled, and Gunther saw the Dragonborn as nothing more than an obsessive hoarder, who had readily abandoned a chase after a ferocious beast, just to run around gathering bent nails and wooden plates. And this left a bitter taste in his poor mouth, which had just barely avoided having to sprout a couple of vampire fangs.  
  
Suddenly, Gunther's vision went dark for a few moments - and, his heart soaring, he wondered to himself it if was Ma again, throwing things at him to wake him up; because that would have meant that he had dreamed up all this nonsense, and that he was still at home, in his warm bed, back to being woefully… no, blessedly average, and no longer in danger of getting hit by any creepy magic (aside from the flying crockery), or of being eaten from skeletons and vampires and werewolves and evil fish. But no, it wasn't Ma, after all: it was the Dragonborn, tossing some sort of rumpled wintercoat into his face.  
  
'Hey, you there! You can have this! My backpack may be magical, but it has its encumbrance limits! And I am not sacrificing my cheese wheels, oh no!'  
  
The Dragonborn rambled on and on, but Gunther did not listen. Wrapping the coat tightly around his naked body, he sank his hands instinctively into his pockets and discovered a few coins inside - perhaps left there by some hapless homeowner whose belongings the Dragonborn had looted. This... This could be enough to pay for a carriage seat - he could use this gold to travel back to Whiterun! He had completed the steward's task; he had earned his pay - surely, that would get him back into Ma's good graces! She promised she'd make him a proper meal - hopefully, a nice hot one, with lots of baked potatoes in it. And after that, he'd gladly take up any job she asked him to do, so long as it did not involve any more adventuring. Because adventuring - the real adventuring, not like in daydreams and books - was messy, scary business that involved being slapped by wildlife, and learning that your heroes were not who you thought they were, and discovering that shapely women would only wear skimpy clothes if they were after your blood... And having your own adoring fan turn on you.  
  
Speaking of which - he probably had to find Golldir and apologize for turning the hapless Aunt Agna into a raging corpse. He would hate for the poor lad to be as disappointed in him, Gunther, as he himself was disappointed in the Dragonborn. Besides... Golldir was kinda cute?  
  
Slowly, the copper disk of the sun sank into the glittering waters of the lazy river. This day had come to an end - and, watching the last embers of the sunset dissolve in the dark-blue sky, Gunther made a silent promise that he'd do all he could to make sure it never repeated itself.

* * *


End file.
